


A Song is a Weapon

by gatasith



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Bisexual Sansa Stark, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Lesbian Margaery Tyrell, POV Sandor Clegane, POV Sansa Stark, Physical Abuse, Porn With Plot, Rough Sex, sansan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-10-11 23:58:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17456735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gatasith/pseuds/gatasith
Summary: Joffrey Baratheon attempts to torment Sansa and Sandor and accidentally unites them; Sandor is pretty good at torturing himself anyway; Sansa gets a taste of power and finds she likes itA sort-of canon following largely smutty fic with some feelings.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, this the first fan fic I've ever written! The first chapter is short, mostly smut-free, and pretty tame. It's all down hill from there.
> 
> My Sansa is 19 years old and my Hound is 22 - in my personal canon the Hound and Joffrey are close in age. I have no interest in age-gaps, particularly not of the GRRM variety.
> 
> I only bothered to watch the first 3 seasons of the show, and I haven't read the books where these events would fit since 2008 so forgive my stupid canon-breaking errors (where they're not intentional)
> 
> This was inspired by two fics, "Back Against the Wall" by squidproquo and "The King Commands" by Infam. It kinda picks up where BAtW left off, but I've obviously changed a lot. 
> 
> The sex in this fic is in fact almost entirely consensual but the circumstances are dubious and complicated, so the usual warnings apply. 
> 
> There is at least one scene with Sansa/Margaery but not for a while.

Sansa spent an interminable afternoon with the Queen and her children. Mostly, she knelt on a rich rug with Myrcella, amusing the child with porcelain dolls. Her mind was still spinning from what had happened in that empty hallway. 

Sandor had taken up his post by the door, moving little and saying less. The Queen had no use for the Hound, except to occasionally order him to fetch her more wine.

Queen Cersei sat on a elaborate chair, practically a throne, with Tommen on her lap. The boy rested his tiny blonde head upon her breasts and she told him stories, tales of the Children of the Forest and Lann the Clever.

Sansa smiled to hear the stories, and she enjoyed playing with Myrcella, who was a kind and charming girl. But over her shoulder she could feel the Hound's eyes on her, boring holes into her back. Or perhaps, in his mind, undressing her. Even now she didn't know if he wanted to destroy her or just to… but she couldn't think about what had taken place, not under the Queen's judgemental gaze, not with the innocent child before her. 

Though Cersei mostly ignored her, she did look over at Sansa and say, “My dear girl, your hair is a fright. I would expect the future Queen to take more care in her appearance.” The way she said “future queen” dripped with sarcasm and reminded Sansa how deeply they all considered her nothing more than Joffrey's plaything - someone for him to practice his sadism on until he got bored. 

She replaited her braid, concealing a smile small of triumph. “Forgive me, your Highness,” she said with her eyes on the floor. Maybe she was a fright. Maybe she was even ruined, in a way, for all she still had her maidenhead. But it was not Joffrey who had accomplished it. 

When the sun began its slow descent, a servant arrived at the door to take the Queen and her children to be dressed for the feast. When Sansa began to follow, to head to her own room and change into a more appropriate gown, the servant stopped her. With an apologetic air, he informed her that she was to go to the Great Hall now. 

“The King wishes to see me before the feast,” she asked, her heart in her mouth.

“Yes, my lady,” the young man said. “The Hound is to accompany you.”

Sandor didn't ask anything of the man, or even look at her. He roughly grabbed her arm and took off towards the Great Hall. For all his shouts of “bugger Joffrey!” he still followed orders like a loyal dog. 

Still, with her arm caught in his iron grip, she felt her desire return. Where his calloused hands touched her soft, bare arms, it was like her skin was on fire. What would he think, she wondered, if she told him that his touch was like flame to her? 

When they were passing the last block of chambers before the Hall, she caught him looking at her. His silver eyes were hard as always, but there was something else there. Pain? Not fear, surely. She didn't think he could feel it anymore, if he could feel anything. 

“What is wrong, my lord?” she asked in a small voice. She hadn't really meant to ask the question aloud.

He grunted, and put a halt to his brisk stride. He lifted up her chin with his finger, forcing her to stare right at his scarred face. 

“What does he want? Eh, little bird?” He held her face with a shaking hand and she couldn't tell if he wanted to caress it or crush it. “He gave you to me until the feast, to do as I pleased.”

“So why call for us before the feast?” she completed the thought, the question - and fear - finally dawning on her.

“Stupid little bird,” he shook his head in mock sadness, his long black hair falling over the scarred half of his face. “He's tired of that game. He'll have thought of something new.”

Terror at the thought settled into the pit of her stomach like a load of iron. Joffrey must know they have gone to the Queen rather than spending the afternoon alone together - he had a servant come to them after all. If he had really wanted the Hound to - she stumbled at the thought, not wanting to have Joffrey's terrible words in her mind again. They came anyway. If the King had really wanted the Hound to break her in for him than what a disappointment it would be to learn she had spent all afternoon playing dolls with Myrcella! 

The Hound scowled and dropped his hand from her, something like disgust on his face. Like he didn't want to touch her. But she knew that wasn't true. She couldn't understand the coldness that radiated off him now. Like he hated her.

“Come,” he barked, giving her a push that was practically a shove. She marched on ahead of him, like she was heading to her own execution. Perhaps she was.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some dub-con here because Joffrey is forcing Sansa and Sandor, also threat of violence, emotional abuse. I also didn't remember until after all this was written that Sandor was technically part of the Kingsguard by this point in the books, so uh just pretend that never happened I guess!

In the Great Hall they found the King seated on the Iron Throne, Meryn Trant and Boros Blount on either side attending him. In preparation for the feast long wooden tables had been dragged in, and while the food have not yet been served they were lined with goblets and cutlery and arrangements of flowers. Sansa may have thought it looked beautiful, if she had not seen Joffrey's glare the second she entered the room.

The King sat with his legs spread wide, one hand carefully place on the arm of the throne, wary of the sharp points. In the other he held his favourite toy of late, a large crossbow, painted Lannister gold and red. 

“Good evening Ser Hound!” he called to them from the far end of the Hall. “And Lady Sansa! Welcome to the feast!” he spread his arms expansively, indicating the empty tables.

“I think we are too early, your Grace,” Sansa said as she curtsied, and immediately hated herself for saying anything at all. 

“More special treatment for the Tourney Champion,” Joffrey said, standing up from the Throne and walking out onto the dais. He beckoned at Sandor and the Hound obeyed, dragging Sansa forward.

“Tell me, dog, did you enjoy your time with my future wife?” They were close now, at the foot of one of the long tables, with Joffrey just a few feet ahead of them, and above, smiling down his manic smile.

When the Hound only grunted, Joffrey's face soured. His thick worm-like lips spasmed into a pout, disappointed that his dog was not playing along.

“You will answer properly when your King asks you a question, dog!” he shouted, spittle flying into the air above them.

Sansa flinched from the sound of his voice. The Hound, his hand still on her arm, gave it a squeeze. She couldn't tell if her had meant it reassuringly, or to hurt her for her cowardice. His lightest touch still seemed hard enough to bruise.

“I did, your Grace,” Sandor said in his low gasp of a voice.

Sansa wondered if it was true. When they were in the hall, when he had his face buried between her legs, practically making her scream, making her feel as if she was going to fall apart - she had enjoyed it, yes. To her great shame, she could not help it. And the Hound, for some of it, he had looked up at her from where he kneeled on the flagstones with something approximating awe - worship - in his eyes. But not for all of it. Even as he pleasured her, even as he touched his tongue to every hidden part of her, she could not help but think he hated her too. Hated to see her so wanton instead of a true lady? Hated to see her happy at all? She didn't know. 

“Oh I find that very hard to believe,” Joffrey said. He nodded to Ser Meryn. “Trant tells me you spent the day playing nursemaid and wine servant to my siblings and mother. Not what I had in mind as a reward for my Champion.”

“It is an honour to stand guard for the Queen, your Grace,” Sandor said, and Sansa thought he meant it. For all he was Joffrey's dog, he did seem to want to protect the other Lannisters. 

“But that's an honour you can receive any time! Hardly fitting after your performance in the Tourney. You were magnificent! Unstoppable! Any real man would have his blood up after that, eh?” the King actually winked and Sansa wished she could scowl her contempt at him. Sandor looked as if he was, but his burned and twisted face usually looked that way.

“Ser Boros,” the King asked, “What would you have done if I had given you the Lady Sansa for the day?” 

The portly knight's mouth fell open a little and he flushed. He gazed at Sansa and she wished she was wearing a winter cloak on top of her dress. 

“You have permission to speak freely, Ser Boros, you are among friends,” the King grinned. “If you could do anything, anything at all, what would you have done?”

Boros hesitated, but the Kingsguard followed orders even better than the Hound. “Your Grace, our vows forbid us from taking wives. That is - your Highness - I might have wanted to fuck the girl. Just the once.” The knight did not have the decency to look ashamed. For all he wished to avoid offending Joffrey and incurring his wrath, he stared right at Sansa as he said he would have - Must they all use that word? she wondered. She knew that there were no true knights, she knew that it was foolish for her to cling to courtesy and politeness, but still. She had hated it when Sandor said it too, admitted he wanted to- but then he had also threatened to fuck her into the wall and somehow, when she was flush and hot from his mouth on her mound, she hadn't minded that at all. 

The King laughed delightedly at Blount's answer. “You see, dog, that is how a man behaves. Even a Kingsguard should know which vows are more flexible than others. And you Trant, what would you have done?”

Meryn Trant appeared to be surprised to be included in the conversation. “I would have followed your orders, Your Grace.”

Joffrey seemed to like this answer even better. “You see that Hound, you follow my orders!” He grinned madly and pranced over to Trant, to slap the man on the back. 

“The order was to do as I pleased,” Sandor growled quietly. And almost, although Sansa must be mistaken, petulantly.

“What was that dog?” Joffrey asked, leaning down from the dais as if to bring his ear closer.

“You ordered me to do as I pleased. It pleased me to guard the Queen!” Sandor said, much louder, his words echoing of the redstone columns of the Hall.

“I was giving you a reward, dog, and I expected you to be smart enough to use it!” Joffrey's face turned an unhealthy shade of red as his fury rose. “I've seen the pathetic way you moon after the girl, hoping for just a sniff of her. I thought you were enough of a man to know what to do with her. Or at least a good enough dog to fuck the bitch!” 

The King laughed at his own joke and the two knights followed suit. Sansa's face reddened with shame and she hoped she did not look as grotesque as Joffrey. The Hound had wanted to do what Joffrey said, but he hadn't. He held himself back. As confused as she was about what had happened, she felt bizarrely honoured that he had chosen to kiss her the way he had, instead of…

Joffrey leapt off the dais and quickly closed the distance between himself and Sansa. He pulled her from the Hound’s grasp, something he was only able to do because he had caught Sandor by surprise. The Hound stared at him empty arm, rage and something else brewing on his features. It was the coldness she kept seeing, the deadness in his eyes that he couldn't quite ever hold back.

“She isn't good enough for you, is that it?” The King stood behind Sansa and held both her arms pinned to her sides. She could feel his hot breath on her ear, and she almost wished it stunk of wine. Something, anything to explain his cruelty, how out of control he always behaved. But unlike the Hound, the King was always sober. 

“She's good enough for Boros fucking Blount, but not you?” Joffrey continued. “You idiot, with your ruined fucking face, you think you deserve better than some traitor girl? You don't deserve anything Hound, not even the scraps I toss you from my table.”

Sansa checked for the rage in Sandor she knew must be there, and was shocked to see it snuffed out. His eyes were as cold and dead as she had ever seen them, and she finally knew why. He agreed with the King. His self-loathing ran so deep he thought he deserved this treatment. She thought back to minutes ago, when she thought she saw hatred towards her in his eyes as he brought her to the Great Hall. The coldness that leaked from his body like a winter rainfall. But she realized what she had missed - that it had been his plan to guard the Queen, to protect her reputation and it had backfired. He had gone against Joffrey's wishes and landed Sansa in a worse situation than if he had just- just fucked her.

“Now, you have new orders, dog. I want the girl broken in. I wanted to give you a gift, and you scorned it, and now you're going to do what I say, and I don't give a bloody fuck if you enjoy it!” The King was screaming now, throwing a tantrum for all he was a man grown.

Sansa felt the terror again, like nothing she had felt since Joffrey tried to strip her in front of the entire court and she had been rescued by Lord Tyrion. How she wished he would appear now! Or any rescuer! She thought the Hound might be that, but now she looked at him and saw he was a prisoner much like herself. Whatever the reasons for his twisted, endless loyalty to the Lannisters, he would not escape it unscathed. It was clearly killing him. 

Joffrey practically threw Sansa back into Sandor's arms and though he caught her, she could feel the eagerness in his arms to toss her away again. Not because she disgusted him, and he didn't want to touch her. But because he did want to, because he was afraid he couldn't control himself, because he hated the thought of his ruined body moving on top of her perfect one. It was like she could read him now, where he had been impenetrable before. His self-loathing was the key that unlocked everything. She saw him as he must see himself. The scarred face she found so fascinating, so mysterious, he must think monstrous. His massive body, that made her burn with desire to think about - how it must remind him of his hated brother, the only other man in Westeros to have that build. Even his hands - she remembered the feel of them, hard but sure, as they dropped inside her smallclothes and parted her. He must see only the blood on those hands. 

She turned to face him, and tried to show him without words all that she had learned. That she understood now, that he did not hate her. He did not hate her at all. 

The hateful thing was Joffrey, and they were both still very much at his mercy. The King strode to the nearest of the long tables and swept off the goblets and flowers. They hit the flagstones with a crash, the vases shattering, bits of glass and petals left in puddles beneath the table.

“You can take her here, dog,” the King said. There was a darkness in his voice, not as gleeful as he usually was when hurting others. He was as mad as Sansa had ever seen him - and no wonder. If there was one thing everyone knew about the Hound, it was that he obeyed. 

Because she knew this, she was not surprised when Sandor lifted her and placed her on her back upon the table. He refused to meet her eyes, though she tried to convince him to, reaching up to his scarred face and touching it as gently as she could. She wanted to tell him he didn't have to do this but then she heard the distinctive click of the King loading his crossbow. 

Sansa lay on the table, sensing Joffrey behind her head, but she could not see him. Sandor still stood beside the table, and she watched his body stiffen, knowing the King has trained his crossbow upon him. Sandor's massive hands clenched and unclenched, a warrior's hands wanting to reach for a sword and knowing they couldn't, not if they wanted to survive. 

Did he even want to live through this? She wondered. How deep did the loathing go? She knew he drank himself into a stupor just to fall asleep at night - everyone in the Red Keep knew. Maybe he would refuse the King, chose the crossbow rather than harming her. She almost wanted him too. But then he would be dead, and she would be alone with Joffrey.

“Fuck her, dog,” the King seethed. “Or I'll have Blount and Trant do it. Both at once, she'd probably like that.” He was giggling, very pleased with the thought, and the laughter was higher and lasted longer than would ever be considered normal.

Not that, Sansa thought, dear Gods not that. To lose her maidenhood to those awful false knights, who had hurt her so many times before - never. She would rather die.

She looked pleadingly at Sandor and mouthed the words, I would rather die. She hoped he understood, that she meant death was better than Blount and Trant. That he could spare her that. 

Sandor's face twisted and there was agony there, like she had never seen.

He got on the table.

He grabbed the bottom of her skirts, to hike them up, but Joffrey stopped him.

“Not so fast, my loyal Hound, though I am glad you are finally eager to obey me. You should show the Lady Sansa the kind of man she’ll lose her maidenhead to,” the King smirked. “Undress, dog.”

Sandor's fists shook in the folds of her dress but he forced himself to let go. He looked up, at the light streaming through the stained glass windows depicting the Seven, and she wondered, absurdly, if he was praying. There was no point, she wanted to tell him. There was nothing to be done.

As much as she knew Joffrey was trying to torture her, humiliate her, force her to bed the man he considered little better than an animal, her fear for herself had lessened. The King's rage had a different target today - she was not the one he was out to destroy. 

Sandor knelt on the table, one leg on either side of her prone form. He unbuckled his scabbard and threw it to the floor. Next he removed the doublet, finally his thin linen shirt. 

She didn't want to gasp. She didn't want to make a sound. It escaped her before she could stop it and she would have given anything to have it back. 

The burns on his face were truly awful, evidence of his brother's monstrous cruelty. But they didn't stop at his face. They continued down the left side of his neck, to his pectoral muscle. He was missing the nipple on that side - the mass of burn tissue suggested it had been burnt off. The rest of him was hardly better, a mass of scars. From tournaments, from battles, from senseless bar fights. Some must have come from Joffrey. No one could serve the King as long as the Hound had and walk away without a few scars.

“What a beauty!” Joffrey crowed. “Are you pleased Lady Sansa? He's almost as handsome as Loras Tyrell!”

She wanted to say he was, but it would have been a lie, and the Hound hated lies even more than he hated pity - the only other thing she could have offered. So she didn't say a thing, only took his hand from where it hung loose at his side. He seemed stunned, and didn't notice at first what she was doing. When he felt the kiss on his hand, he jumped like he had been stung. 

The look he gave her was so heavy she felt crushed by the weight of it. It contained so much - pain and hatred and even fear. 

She met his gaze and kissed his hand again. She wouldn't lie to him, tell him he was beautiful, or even that he didn't look every inch a monster hovering above her, ready to ravish her on the King's command. But she could try to tell him she didn't care. That none of it mattered - how he looked, what Joffrey might do. Because -

She wanted him. She really did. 

She said it quietly, it was barely more than a whisper, and she prayed to the old gods and the new that Joffrey didn't hear. 

“I want you, Sandor.”

He shivered. His massive body seemed slight as he hunched his shoulders, like his chest was collapsing, like some tension had been keeping him upright and now it was gone. 

“I'm growing weary of this, and if you don't finish soon you'll have to fuck her in front of half the nobles in Westeros, Hound. I suggest you get on with it,” Joffrey's voice came from beyond Sansa's field of vision again, and she tried to ignore it entirely.

Sandor grabbed her skirts once more, and pulled them up above her waist. The cool air of the vast Hall hit her bare legs and she wanted to shiver too. She felt the hard table at her back and wondered briefly if it would be strong enough to support their weight once they-

The casual thought made her laugh in her head. She was thinking about logistics now. It was really happening. No one was coming to save them.

She reached up to where Sandor was still kneeling and pulled at the strings on his breaches. As she did she could feel the hardness of him straining against the fabric. He wanted her too. Despite all of it. The thought gave her a little thrill, that started in her stomach and then worked its way down somewhere deeper. She felt her desire for him as a little glow, inside her core, and wondered what she could do to stoke that flame.

She broke Sandor free from his breaches, his heavy member falling into her hand. She stroked it gently, feeling the heat of it. It was one piece of him that was unscarred.

He pushed the rest of her skirts out of his way and pulled her smallclothes down. He let out a little moan at the sight of her, for all he had had his face buried in that very spot a few hours ago. She could tell he wanted to give her the kiss again, and she wanted to let him. But she remembered the King's words - the feast would begin soon and then she'd have to do this in front of far more people than just Joffrey and two false Knights. 

Sandor shifted upwards, aligning himself with her entrance. He rubbed it over her clit, once, twice, each time sending a thrill through her, the mirror image of the feeling his tongue had brought to her. He looked up at her, uncertainly. She suspected, if they had more time, he would have done more to prepare her. But she didn't fear the pain. She'd always been told that laying with a man was painful, but wives must do their duty. He'd already proven the lie of that earlier with his kiss - his tongue delving into her, lapping at her like a man dying of thirst. She trusted him. She was as ready as she was ever going to be.

She saw the moment when he discovered the truth of that, when he placed his head inside her, just the tip of it, and found her wet for him. His eyes spoke a great relief then, that he wouldn't hurt her, that she really did want him.

He pushed forward, and entered her inch by inch. She squirmed a little under the pressure of it, as she felt her body stretch to accommodate him. But it wasn't truly painful. Or, there was something appealing about this kind of pain.

He began to move inside her now, and she brought up her arms to caress his back. His slow strokes filled her and then emptied her, and every time he pulled away she wanted to drag him back, to keep him in her, so the feeling would never stop. For it was building up in her now, a tensing of every muscle in her body, like the closing of a fist, before everything was released.

She was floating away on it, and so was Sandor. He was panting with exertion, but every pant had a fluttery edge that was almost a whimper. She had that feeling again, of him worshipping her. And she knew that if he had ever hated her, he had hated the thought that someone like her would give her body up to him. As his filled her and stroked her and sent those spirals of flame through her belly, she wanted to tell him she would give him anything, everything, all of her. 

But they weren't alone, and soon Joffrey's voice was there again. This time it was accompanied by the King himself, standing at the head of the table, leering down at her.

“Do you like it Lady Sansa? Do you like having my dog fuck you?” There was so much cruelty in his eyes, but also so much expectation. He wanted this to humiliate her. He didn't want her to like it.

But she did. So for the first time, she gave voice to her pleasure, no longer holding in the gasps and yelps she’d been suppressing. She moaned as Sandor drove into her, his pelvic bone colliding with her clit. 

“The whore does like it,” she heard the King say, a tossed of remark for his knights to chuckle at. But there was uncertainty in his voice, the creeping suspicion he might have made a very large mistake.

Sandor increased the speed of his thrusts and lowered his mouth to her ear. At first he just bit at it, crushed his lips into the side of her face, like he had lost all capacity for language. Then he said, “Little bird,” in a long low moan and she was lost. The building tension, the clenching muscles, everything reached its peak. And then fell over the edge. 

Her eyes were flung open and instead of Sandor's face there was Joffrey's, hanging upside down above her. 

“You're being too gentle dog!” He yelled. “I want you to break her.” 

Sandor stopped his movements for a moment, his head still nestled next to hers. She leaned towards him and spoke into his ruined ear: “You won't break me. I'll be fine. But please-” and here she hesitated, even though she was already naked with him inside her. Even though the King and his Knights had watched it all, and she had no right to call herself a Lady anymore. It was still hard to say the words. “Please fuck me, Sandor. Fuck me as hard as you can.”

The noise he made was inhuman. She saw the dog in the man as he reared up away from her, his eyes crazed and began to buck his hips wildly. But then, she had found the wolf in herself, and felt her body rise up to meet every thrust. Her whole body still radiating with the pleasure of her orgasm, but even with that the pain soon broke through, as he delved deeper into her, as deep as he could go. 

She cried out, the sensations too much, too much pleasure and too much pain, a bizarre mix of the two. And Joffrey's face. And Sandor's silver, haunted eyes. It was all too much. She couldn't handle more of it, feared this might actually somehow kill her.

But then Sandor came, with great erratic thrusts into her, as he lost all control of his body. His hands painfully gripped her thighs, gouging divots into her soft skin as he held on for dear life. With his warmth filling her, with her name escaping his lips in little gasps, she fell over the edge again.

A few moments passed where she didn't move, or think, or maybe even breathe. If this was what being dead was like, maybe it wouldn't be so bad if Joffrey just killed them now. Her whole body hummed, the echo of her pleasure refusing to leave her. She flexed the entrance to her sex experimentally and found that this sent waves of pleasure through her all over again. She did this a few times before she came to her senses, and realized Sandor was staring down at her. She was still impaled by him, flat on her back on the table, his massive hands planted on either side of her face. His long black hair hung like a curtain, and she could only see his good eye. 

She nearly came again when she saw what was there. It wasn't love - she was not a silly girl anymore, who believed the songs, believed that Sandor was a man capable of such things. But it was affection. And gratefulness. And again, as before, he looked as if he was worshipping her. He may have spat on the Gods, but at that moment he looked like a man who had found something to pray to.

The moment was destroyed by Joffrey, who had begun clapping his hands.

“Oh very well done, Ser Hound!” Sansa finally shifted in a way she could see him properly, and saw that he was only now lowering his crossbow. While they had coupled he had pointed it not at Sandor, but at Sansa herself. This should have made her feel afraid, but she was past fear. For the last few months she had lived in terror that the King would demand her maidenhead. And now he would never have that from her.

Sandor removed himself from between her legs, and she felt the rush of his seed dripping down as well. She sat up to look and sure enough there was blood on the table. She smiled at it, feeling immense relief. Whatever happened next, whatever Joffrey did to her, he could not take this from her. Maybe she should have lost it to her Lord Husband in the marriage bed and not to the Hound on a table but in her heady satisfied state, this seemed perfect.

Joffrey seemed to notice her beatific expression and his lips writhed as he tried to understand what had gone wrong. As Sansa was not responding properly as a target, he turned his rage back on Sandor.

“You filthy dog, look at the mess you've made! And right before the feast. You expect people to eat here now after you've rutted all over the place?”

Sandor only grunted. He was doing up the laces on his breaches, pulling back on his shirt. Sansa followed his lead and replaced her smallclothes, and began arranging her skirts. When that was done she carefully edged herself off the table. Her back hurt from being pressed into it, and she hurt nearly everywhere else from how rough things had gotten at the end.

When both Sansa and Sandor were standing, they stood a little a part, not touching at all. But something connected them now, she thought, something the King had accidentally forged in his quest to ruin them.

Joffrey looked at them and scowled. “Both of you get out of here, this doesn't amuse me anymore. Get cleaned up for the feast so you don't shame me further.” He climbed back up the dais and threw himself down upon his Throne. The way he immediately clasped his hand to his chest and quietly swore proved he should have been more careful - the Iron Throne was not an easy seat.

Sansa and Sandor turned to take their leave of the Hall, so very careful themselves not tough each other, or even look at each other. Joffrey could not be allowed to know just how deep the connection between them ran.

“Dog!” The King called, just as they were almost free of the Hall. “Make sure you escort your bitch back down to dinner. I meant what I said earlier, she has to entertain you at the feast tonight.”

They left the Great Hall with the echoing peals of the King’s laughter trailing behind them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor is rather traumatized by the events of last Chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a Sandor POV chapter! It's extremely angsty! Usual warnings still apply but there is no sex or violence actually occurring in this bit.

Sandor walked with her in silence, grateful not to run in to any guests arriving for the feast, who would surely be making their way to the Great Hall any moment. 

When they reached the stairs that would lead up to Sansa's apartments, she began to speak, but he just turned and left her. He heard her take a few steps after him but he ignored it and hurried back down the hall towards his own rooms. If he had to hear her speak now it might kill him. 

He flung open the door to his chamber and slammed it shut behind him, the rage building in him. He had to get away from her before she saw it. He had turned his anger on her too many times before, and now- 

He dug around through his meager possessions until his found a bottle of whiskey that hadn't yet been emptied. It burned going down, but in a way that he welcomed instead of feared. He sat down heavily on his bed, waiting for the liquor to work, waiting for it to calm the screaming rage in his chest. If it didn't work he knew would race back to the Great Hall and slaughter Joffrey. Impale the bastard on some greatsword within the Iron Throne. He would be damned to the Seven Hells, a Kingslayer a surely as Jaime Lannister, and he wouldn't give a blistering fuck.

Gods, if only she hadn't been so kind. 

She was always kind. That was why she hadn't escaped King's Landing like her wildling little sister. It was how she had somehow managed Joffrey's madness for months on end. It was how she fought. 

And of course she had used the only weapon she had back in the Great Hall. She had been kind to him, and given herself to him, and made it so easy for him to take her. 

But of course it was a lie. Of course it was nothing more than her ladies armour, that impenetrable politeness and fucking Stark honour. She behaved like a benevolent Goddess while she took his cock. He ached thinking about it, about how beautiful she had been. 

It would have better if she was cruel. If she had spat at him, and called him a monster, and tried to fight with nails and teeth instead of her moans and his name on her lips. She tried to give him a way out, but there was no way out. 

He should have died, rather than do what he did to her. He should have let Joffrey fire that crossbow into his belly. It would have been honourable. When he thought about what Lord Stark would think about what he had done - but bugger Lord Stark. A lot of good his honour had gotten him. The Hound was still alive, and so was Sansa. 

He finished what was left in the bottle and searched for cleaner clothes to wear to the feast. There were no mirrors in the room, so he didn't have to look at himself, didn't have to see what she would have seen.

She should have had someone like Ser Loras. Not Ser Loras, obviously, the poor bastard would have died on Joffrey's crossbow when he failed to get hard with the woman. But someone like him, a true knight, like one from the stories. 

Instead it had been him, and the thought made him want to find another bottle. He had heard the sound she made when he took his shirt off. For all the other fine sounds she had made later, for however well she had pretended, he couldn't escape the truth of that. He was monstrous, and not just in appearance. Look at what he had done. 

He did look at it - turned it over in his mind. The redness of her hair, the copper curls between her legs. Her skin like snow. How she moved under him, pushing up to meet him, like she wanted it. 

He had wanted her from the moment he had seen her, and he'd had her. Part of him was proud of it. Proud enough to want to brag, to draw aside the next man he saw and tell him he'd fucked Sansa Stark bloody. 

But that's not really what happened. He'd stolen her maidenhead while Joffrey Baratheon aimed a crossbow at her. She put on a good show for the King, and she tried to make it easy for Sandor, but he couldn't escape the truth.

When the King had first said he could spend the day doing as he pleased with Sansa - of course his first thoughts were to fuck her. Like the monster he was, he dragged her off into that hallway, with every intention to - what had he said? Fuck her into the wall? Why had he said that? Why hadn't he been gentle with her? 

He tried to remedy the mistake, the only way he could think of. Joffrey expected Sansa to please Sandor, so he had pleased her instead. He had pushed her against the wall but only to kiss her, first her lips and then lower. She didn't fight him off, too afraid, too polite. Even in trying to please, he harmed her. She seemed to enjoy herself, but he hadn't asked. He'd just taken what he wanted. He was no better than fucking Gregor. 

And still - still! She was kind to him when he thought the humiliation before the King might kill him, or drive him to murder Joffrey, which amounted to the same thing. Sansa knew Joff couldn't kill her, the valuable hostage. But Sandor was expendable. And she hadn't let him die. 

He stared at the stone wall, knowing he had to go down to the feast, knowing he'd have to spend the whole evening beside her. He'd smell the perfume of her hair and he'd want her again. There was no end to his selfishness. If he got her alone, he'd take her again.

He had to teach her to stay away from him, to fear him, to stop sacrificing herself for other people. If she kept letting herself be used, one day she'd be used up completely, like he was. 

“Buggering fucking hell,” he said aloud. Then he forced himself up from his bed and out into the hall.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor and Sansa attend a feast, but it doesn't go very well; they find themselves alone

When Sandor made it to the Great Hall the place was already full to bursting. It took him a while to spot Sansa, as she wasn't in her usual place between Joffrey and Queen Cersei. No, she was at the back of the room, one of the distant tables. The kind of place he might sit. A good place for a dog.

He never really regretted being a large man. He never would have survived without it, would have been dead ten times over. But he towered absurdly over even tall men, and he felt the whole crowd notice the moment he entered the Hall. 

Joffrey broke off from speaking with Margaery Tyrell when he heard the whispers and laughs that were sweeping the hall. 

“Ser Hound!” the King raised his goblet in greeting. “How kind of you to join us at last! And you've dressed so handsomely” Joffrey was grinning, and Sandor realized with some horror that the cleaner clothes he had thrown on without thinking were some of the finest he owned. The crowd laughed along with the King, mindless buggering sheep the lot of them. 

He bowed toward the King, acknowledging the compliment. 

“Of course you wanted to look your best for your Lady,” Joff continued. He indicated where Sansa was sitting and Sandor felt the rage growing in him again. She looked radiant, in a gown of deep Stark grey. Her hair was loose but curled, falling gently at her shoulders. She was the perfect image of a highborn lady. And here he was, come to shame her yet again. A part of him wished to just flee King's Landing so he could not be used as a tool against her anymore. But a larger part, the selfish monstrous part, wanted to stay by her, to touch that beautiful hair, to shred the lovely dress from her lovely body.

He went to her table, where she had been talking quietly to some minor courtiers. Some of the men were handsome enough, as those things went, and he felt ill inside to impose his company on her.

When she looked at him, his stride faltered. There was so much in that gaze. The kindness yes, but new things, pain, a deep hurt he had put there. Yes, she had played her part well in the Great Hall but an hour was enough time for her to realize what he had done. To hate him for it.

“Lady Sansa,” he rasped, and bowed like an arsehole, praying she would dismiss him. Praying even that she would call the guards and have him arrested for assaulting her.

Instead she inclined her beautiful head, causing the strings of diamonds at her ears to sway. “My Lord. I believe the King means this seat for you.” She gestured to the empty seat beside her. He waited for some of the simpering peacocks who had been fawning over her to move out of the way before he could fit himself in beside her. 

He took his place, and sat in silence. Soon the conversation at the table resumed, the courtiers speaking amongst themselves and ignored Sandor and Sansa. Or, at least, keeping their gossipy words about them to a whisper.

“Would you care for wine my lord?” Sansa offered. He wanted to crawl out of his own skin to hear the polite facade she was putting up. 

“Of course I want the fucking wine. I want an ocean of it,” he said, grabbing the goblet she had just filled. He swallowed the whole thing in one gulp and extended the glass again, so she would keep pouring. 

She looked at him again with pure hurt on her face. Like she was near to tears. 

“No tears, little bird,” he warned. “If these bastards see you crying they'll want to know the reason why, and if you don't supply it, they'll invent one.”

He could see it already. Right now the nobles were jeering at Sansa's misfortune, forced to dine with Hound. But let her break into tears and they'd suspect he’d done something to her. They'd be right, but she would never live down the shame. When Joff let her go - if he let her go - she'd never make a marriage if the whole bleeding kingdom knew the Hound had fucked her. 

“I don't know what you want from me,” she said in a small voice. She had said that before, in the hallway after the tourney, when he first backed her into the wall and kissed her. 

“Nothing,” he grunted. “Not a fucking thing from a silly girl like you.”

He watched as her face stilled, like he had slapped her. 

“It's no excuse,” she said, through what he thought was a gritted jaw. But the little bird didn't do things like that. She buried all her anger too deep to ever slip.

“What isn't?” he asked as he took another drink of wine. He felt it start going to his head, his thoughts coming slower and looser.

“The fact that you hate yourself, and your whole fucking life, is no excuse to be cruel to me.”

The wine must have affected him more than he thought - he could have sworn she had just cursed at him. And said he hated-? Well he supposed most anyone could have figured that out.

He must be really reeling now, because he saw Sansa stand up and start to leave the feast. He moved to go after her, and found himself more steady than he expected. But little bird, storming out of a feast? Defying the king? This was not the Sansa he knew.

“Lady Sansa, where are you going!” King Joffrey called, noticing the disturbance. He had a massive grin on his idiot face. The whole crowd turned to face Sansa, and of course saw Sandor a few steps behind him, reaching for her like a bloody burning fool.

“I'm not feeling well, Your Grace,” she said in her perfect lady voice. Not at all like the voice he had thought he heard her use at the table.

“But you will leave your Lord unattended at his table!” the King gestured at Sandor and the nobles laughed.

“I believe Lord Sandor has tired of my company,” Sansa said, and how the crowd hooted at that. 

Some of their comments reached him and they were exactly what he had expected. The King's dog had fucked the girl, and now he had no use for her. The implication of course - who could have any use for her after such a thing? Certainly not the King. They had watched Joffrey entertain Margaery Tyrell all night, using every ounce of his minimal charm. They could all see what was coming, even if Sansa could not. The King was going to cast her off. Maybe even behead her like her father. All of her months of pleasing Joffrey would come to nothing if she angered him now.

“Please your grace,” she said. “May I be allowed to return to my chambers?”

“But of course!” Joffrey said, his face mocked up in an expression of sympathy. “You must allow my Hound to accompany you. To keep you safe on the way back to your bedchamber.”

The brainless mob laughed and clapped at that. Sandor couldn't take anymore. He was going to slit the throat of every noble in the room and piss on their corpses if he had to endure another second of this.

He grabbed Sansa by the arm and dragged her from the hall.

***

 

On the way to her chambers, he thought she would berate him like she had started to at the table. He waited for it, knowing he deserved it. But she was still and silent. 

They reached the door to her chambers and he didn't know what to do with himself. He thought he should apologize. But how could he, when he wasn't truly sorry for what he had done? When part of him just wanted to have her again?

She pushed open the door. He was going to leave without a word, just as he'd left her at the stairs after…

“Come in,” she said, and he stopped. He stared at her uncomprehendingly.

“Everyone thinks you will be with me anyway. Joffrey practically ordered you to.”

“I don't-” he started, but stopped because he had no idea how to continue. I don't want to was a lie. The closest thing was probably what she had said twice now to him: I don't know what you want from me.

“I'm don't care whether you want to or not,” she said, real anger in her voice. “You're a dog aren't you? Then obey me and get inside.”

He was so shocked and confused that he actually obeyed her.

Inside her chambers were very much like her, everything was soft and beautiful but also cold. She moved right through the outer rooms of the apartment straight to the bedchamber, and he followed her because he didn't know what else to do.

“Sit,” she said, pointing at a chair by the fireplace. Again, she sounded like she was ordering a dog around, not welcoming a guest. He'd had enough of it. He stopped her as she tried to continue her path across the room. Her grabbed both her wrists in one hand and held them above her head.

“I was going to bring you more wine,” she said, not seeming at all concerned with the way he held her. It must he hurting her. He meant it to hurt.

“Why the fuck are you talking to me like that?” he growled, hoping to restore some of her fear of him.

“Why you treating me so cruelly after what we've been through?” she shot back.

“We haven't been through anything!” he shouted, shaking her as he did so. “I fucked you bloody because Joffrey said so. You let me do it so you didn't get a crossbow bolt in your brain.”

She looked at him with an expression of confusion and anger, but certainly not fear.

“I didn't let you do anything - we were both there, we were both a part of it! And I thought the King had that crossbow trained on you...I didn't even know he had it aimed at me until after.”

“Seven Hells!” he roared. “It was all I could see if I took my eyes off you for a second, that cunt holding the damn thing next to your stupid little head.”

“And that bothered you? The thought of him killing me?” she hissed. 

“Of course it fucking did!”

“Then you can see how we were both his prisoners.” He thought he had a good grip on her, that he must be crushing her fragile wrists, but she somehow wrenched her arms down from his grasp and fell panting to the floor.

“I followed his orders,” Sandor said, unable to look at her. “I did what he wanted. And you… you pretended so beautifully, I could almost think for a few moments that you wanted it. That you could want me.”

She sighed heavily from her place on the floor. “I didn't pretend anything.”

He did look at her then, and her face was a picture of weariness.

“So you're just some wildling whore, you don't care who you get it from?” he spat. 

“You're not going to speak to me like that. I can take that from Joffrey but not from you.” She said, and he heard danger in her tone. 

“Why? Why should I be any different from Joffrey? From my brother? This is a world full of monsters waiting to crush a pretty little bird like you.” 

She stood up, pushing herself to her feet and straightening her grey dress. The beautiful fabric was wrinkled now, and there was a rip under the arm from when he had lifted her up. 

“You're better than that,” she said. “Maybe you haven't been, but you can be. It would help if you admit to yourself that I'm not a liar. I said I wanted you and I meant it.”

He stared wildly around the room, wondering if Joffrey was going to emerge from behind a bed curtain, to reveal he had put her up to this. How, otherwise, could it be true?

“Maybe you talked yourself into it. Maybe you lay there with Loras fucking Tyrell in your pretty little head and that's what made you so wet.” He wished he had the words back as soon as he'd said them. She glared at him.

“Loras Tyrell wouldn't have me unless I grow a cock.” He must have made a face, because she said, “Don't look at me like that. I've spent months listening to the way you talk. All you ever tell me is my politeness and courtesy are pointless. Well here I am without it. I'm stripped of it. I've got nothing left to hide behind with you, not after what happened. Now you can go back down to that feast with Joffrey… Or, or you can stay up here with me!”

“If I stay here with you,” he choked, “I am giving Joff what he wants. He wants me to fuck you again, to ruin you, to humiliate you.”

“No,” she said, drawing closer to him until he could feel her breasts against his chest. “Stay because it's what I want. Bugger Joffrey. Bugger all of them. That's what you would usually say.” And she smiled gloriously, and flushed red, all of the coarseness finally catching up with her.

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her even closer, unsure if it would be an embrace or if he would crush the life out of her. It was too much, the idea that she truly wanted him. That she might even… care about him. But that was surely too far.

Their eyes met and he thought he must look mad, like he was deciding if he would kill her or not. She had to feel it, the coiled tension in him, the rage, everything he had to fight down. 

But her face was open and guileless. The kindness was there and she really did look like a goddess. Something he could believe in.

“Alright little bird,” he said. “Sing for me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Sandor POV! Sansa comes back eventually (chapter 6) but I ended up finding our Hound more fun to write (because of the angst, you see). I should probably have done more with Joffrey at the feast trying to be a bastard, but I had other things I wanted to rush along too - if anyone has a brilliant suggestion for how Joff could be more of dick to Sansan in this bit I'd love to hear it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor let's his bad attitude get in the way of a good thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a porn chapter. There's a bunch of Sandor angst again. Warning for consensual but rough/kinky sex.

Sansa lay on the bed, naked as her name day. He hadn't told her to get undressed, she did it without a word. She was waiting for him. 

Sandor was breathing heavily, the blood rushing away from his brain. He wished he hadn't drank so much wine, and the whiskey before it. Still, he could feel himself growing hard at the sight of her. 

He moved to take off his shirt and she made a sound. He glared at her, feeling betrayed already. 

“You'd rather you didn't have to see me, I expect,” he growled. “I could blindfold you. Some women like that.” 

So he still disgusted her, Sandor thought darkly, but she wanted his cock badly enough to overlook it. He supposed he should be flattered by that.

“No it's not that!” she said quickly. “I thought you might be more comfortable if you didn't.” She crawled down the bed towards him, and gods that was a sight, the way her breasts swayed as she moved. When she reached the edge of the bed she knelt before him. She was a tall woman, and with her on the bed and him on the floor, they were, if not close in height, at least more evenly matched.

Sansa placed her hands on his face. On the scarred half too, and traced the rugged lines with her fingertips. She didn't seem disgusted, just - interested. She leaned in and planted a kiss there. He couldn't really feel it, the burn so deep even the nerve-endings had shriveled away. But he liked how she touched him. 

He took the shirt off after all, and she seemed pleased when he did it. She traced her hands over the scars on his naked chest. 

“So many,” she murmured. “It's a wonder you've lived this long.”

He didn't say anything, merely submitted to her touch, feeling a shiver run through him every time she brushed a scar. He had never let anyone see him this way. 

She began kissing his neck, the right side - the good side. He could fully feel her soft lips as they trailed down from his jaw to his collarbone. Fuck, he wanted to touch her. To shove her down on the bed and have her. But he didn't want it to be like that this time. He never wanted to feel the way he had earlier, when he wasn't sure if she was just pretending to save her life.

It seemed like Sansa had other ideas, however. She took on of his massive hands and placed it over her breast. When he didn't immediately grab at it, she leaned into it, like she was grinding her nipple into his palm. He complied, feeling the softness of her, sliding his thumb over her bright pink nipple. She moaned in response.

He had grabbed her by the hair. He wasn't sure when he had done it. His free hand, the one that wasn't fondling her breast, was tangled up in the cascades of her long red hair. He grabbed a fistful and pulled her head back. She looked at him, her eyes half lidded, as if she was going to fall asleep. 

“You have to tell me you want me,” he tried to growl. He cursed himself for how it come out, like he was begging. Why was he begging? Why didn't he just force her down in front of him and make her suck his aching cock? 

“Don't you know I want you?” she practically hummed. She took his hand from off her breast and brought it to her sex where he could feel the heat coming off her. He brushed the copper curls and found the folds of her, already wet. 

“You need to say it,” he said through gritted teeth. He wanted her so badly. He felt he would explode if he didn't have her soon. But he couldn't do it without her permission, not this time. Not when he was alone with her, when he didn't have to be Joffrey's dog. 

“I want you, Sandor,” she said. He still held her by the hair, but he loosened his grip and found her falling forward, her lips on him, and her sex into the palm of his hand. 

She was kissing him. She hadn't done that, not earlier when they were in the hallway. He had crushed half a dozen cruel kisses against her face, his twisted lips rubbing against her perfect red ones. But now she kissed him, her mouth open, wide and eager, her tongue darting out into his, hesitantly at first. Then bolder. She sucked his bottom lip into her mouth and bit it until she drew blood.

He moaned at that, kissing her back just as hard. He had his hand between her legs now and he slipped a finger inside her, felt her grind down against it. She was practically singing against his mouth, a series of little gasps and mews as he drew the finger in and out, using his thumb to make circles over her clit. Another finger and she gasped and bit his lip once more. 

She was so wet he imagined he could feel it pooling into his hand. He felt himself straining against his breaches, the pressure becoming unbearable, so he withdrew from her to free himself. 

She had seen it already, but Sandor felt gratified at the way her eyes widened when she saw his cock. The way she looked at it - she looked almost hungry. He groaned at his own thought. She was a highborn lady. It was once thing for him - a lowly dog - to bury his face between her legs, but she would never deign to slip that perfect mouth over him. 

Remembering how she had reacted earlier, the pleasure he had given her in the hallway, he pushed her back into the bed. She tried to cling to his neck, to keep kissing him. He wriggled out of her reach and bent to spread her legs apart.

“You don't have to,” she whispered, like she was afraid someone might hear. “I believe I am… ready for you.”

“You're so wet I might drown,” he agreed. “But that's not why you do this.”

She seemed about to ask another question so he quickly buried his face between her legs. She gasped when his tongue reached out for her, licking and sucking at these lower lips, kissing them as deeply as he'd kissed her mouth. His tongue alternated between darting inside her opening and swirling over her clit. He could hear her moaning, bucking her hips, reaching down for him, grabbing a handful of his hair when that was all she could reach. He kept it up, feeling the wetness of her covering his face, the smell of her intoxicating him.

She came harder this time than she had this morning in the hall, and she didn't try to quiet herself as she had then. She cried out as loud a noise as he'd ever heard the proper lady make. She shook as her pleasure hit her in waves. 

He lifted his head from her legs so he could see her face. Her eyes were slammed closed and she looked like she was in pain. He felt his stomach twist at the thought, that he had hurt her after all, pushed her too far. 

But then he caught what she was whispering, what he had taken to be gasps and yelps of pain.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she was saying over and over without pause. 

No woman had ever thanked him for pleasuring them. The whores he’d made use of had all be happy to see him go. But then, he hadn't tried to please them the way he hoped to please Sansa.

He pulled himself up next to her, to kiss her if he could, to fuck her if she would still let him. He wanted to bury himself in her to the hilt, but she looked exhausted. 

She finally calmed, and turned towards him, surprised to find his face next to hers. He was laying on his left side, so most of his ruined face was sinking into the blankets. She'd only have to see his good side for now.

He opened his mouth to say something. She was so beautiful, and he felt - honoured to have her there. He wanted to apologize for himself, for how he had hurt her, for the cruel things he kept saying when he should hold his tongue. 

She kissed him before he had the chance. 

Then she was moving down the bed, and he was sure she was getting up to get dressed. He felt a deep disappointment at the thought, that he wouldn't fuck her tonight, or maybe ever again. It was just as well. Whatever madness had possessed the woman had to stop eventually. 

He was planning on how he would return to his chambers and finish himself off when he realized she hadn't left at all. She was kneeling on the bed at his waist.

She grabbed his cock with one hand, her long fingers wrapping around the shaft. She stroked it like she had in the Great Hall, so gently, like she was afraid to hurt him. He thrust himself further into her hand, wanting to beg her to grasp harder and move faster but refusing to order her to do anything.

He ached as she touched him, and he wondered, absurdly, if she wasn't teasing him. If she didn't know exactly what she was doing. The dark thoughts in his head were crowding in on him. Wasn't she a little too good at this? Hadn't Joffrey had her as his plaything all these months? Surely the King had had her, surely he was laughing at Sandor even now, and so was she. 

But when he looked at her - she didn't seem to be laughing at him. She seemed entranced, the look of someone discovering something new. And he had seen the blood on the table. He tried to silence the rage and suspicion that coiled themselves in his head, tried to focus on her hands, her hair, her heavy breasts.

He was about to give up, to beg her to leave him before he said something horrible to her, when she placed her lips on the head of his cock.

He nearly came simply from the surprise. Then she was lowering her head, filling her mouth and throat with him. It took her a moment to get the rhythm right, to find that he liked when she licked the shaft and head as well as drawing it in and out of her mouth. He moaned as she swirled her tongue over the head, sucking at the most sensitive part of it. She responded to every sound he made, learning quickly what he wanted. So he moaned harder, louder, to show her what he wanted. As he did so he slipped further into his own pleasure, feeling his cock pulse with it. He couldn't hold on much longer.

“Sansa,” he panted. “I'm going to come.” She sucked harder and he nearly lost it. “I'm going to come in your mouth little bird, be ready.”

He was glad he was able to warn her, because a second later he could no longer hold on at all. He felt his pleasure reach its peak and then everything burst forth from him like a dam. He watched her as it happened, as he came into her perfect noble mouth. He wanted to laugh at that, or maybe cry, if it hadn't been years since he lost the power to do so. He was ruining her. Even when she wanted it. What kind of lady did this? What kind of lady sucked a cock like that? 

He was empty of everything, except his darkness.

It was a while before she spoke. He was surprised she could speak, that she hadn't choked on his hot seed. 

“Did that please you, my lord?”

“I'm not a fucking Lord, Sansa.” He tried not to look at her, didn't want to see what change his behaviour had wrought.

“Did I please you, Sandor?” she tried again. When he said nothing, she continued. “After you gave me the kiss, I thought it might be what you wanted. I'm sorry if I didn't do it right.”

Gods, he was the biggest bastard in the buggering Seven Kingdoms. He had to give her something, show some affection, prove he wasn't just using her. But wasn't he? What could he give her? He could maybe get her out of King's Landing, but what then? Return her to Winterfell so her bastard brother could cut off his head or send him to the Wall? That was probably what he deserved. 

“I'm pleased, Sansa,” he said, his voice so much colder than he wanted, needed it to be. 

“You're not,” she said, shifting closer to him.

“I said I was,” he growled.

“No, because you're treating me poorly again. And every time you've done that it's because you're… ashamed of yourself. You can't do that.” She said it softly but firmly, and he felt the rage coil again.

“I can do whatever the fuck I want!” He sat up. “You're here alone with me and you've lost all your senses because you're not afraid. I could pick you up and fuck you against the bedpost, and you couldn't do a thing to stop it. I'd ruin you, just like Joffrey wanted. Hell, I have ruined you. You wanted songs and poems and true knights and I... I swore I would never hurt you! But I have, and I’ll do it again, and I’ll like it.” 

He didn't think he'd ever said that many words to her all at once, and he wanted them back as soon as they'd left his mouth. He had hurt her again. He couldn't stop. Why didn't she see it yet?

She was shaking her head. Was she crying? Laughing at him? 

She lifted one of her legs, until she had straddled him. He felt her full arse on the tops of his thighs, and his cock was brushed by her copper curls as she settled herself. The damn thing revived almost instantly.

She looked down at his cock, hard again, betraying his desire for her. She grabbed it as she lifted herself, aligned it with her slit, and pushed herself down upon him

He nearly howled. Confusion clouded his mind, what little of it existed that wasn't burned up in the heat of her. Didn't she hear what he said? Had he not said it out loud after all? 

She began to ride him, lifting herself up and slamming back down upon him. 

“You won't speak to me like that anymore,” she panted. “I will not be the target of your rage.”

“I can't stop-” he tried to say, but she pushed down into him with such force he nearly came.

“You want me, Sandor. You want my body, but I think you want all of me. And you will treat me well or I will be gone. I'd rather give myself to Joffrey than be treated cruelly by a man afraid to love me.”

Love? He almost laughed. She was mad, he had broken her mind somehow when he fucked her in the Great Hall. He couldn't love anyone or anything.

He grabbed her thighs and dug his fingers into them, the way he had held her when he came into her, in front of Joffrey and the buggering Kingsguard. Would someone who loved her have done that?

She acted like she didn't even feel his hands. She kept riding him, relentlessly, drawing almost totally away from him then impaling herself on his cock. Gods it felt good. How it must hurt her. Why was she hurting herself? Was she hurting herself just because she knew he liked it? 

The wild look in her eyes suggested he might be wrong. Sansa Stark, for all she was a noble, a Lady, a silly woman who believed the songs - she was a wolf too. 

Her breasts swung as she rode him and grabbed at them, squeezing them roughly in his hands. Pulling a nipple into his mouth and biting it until she screamed a little, rolling it over his tongue. Greedily sucking at her until he had covered both breasts in dark red bruises. They would fade in a day, but for a moment she looked scarred as he was.

Sandor reached up and placed his hand on her shoulder. When she did not slow her pace, he reached for her neck. He just wanted to stroke it, at first, feel the pulse that must be thundering beneath her skin. Before he knew what he was doing, he was grabbing her, his massive hand encircling her neck easily, his thumb and forefinger nearly meeting each other with his grip still loose.

Sansa's eyes widened. He waited for her to tell him to stop, for her to run from him, for her to look at him with disgust, and know finally he was a monster. Instead she met his gaze and moaned and nodded.

He squeezed his hand, gently at first. He felt her respond, her sex clenching around his cock. He gripped harder and she rode him faster. He could kill her like this. She had to know he could. But she just moaned and panted, like she wasn't afraid at all. Like she trusted him.

He felt the soft, flawless skin of her neck under his rough fingers. He felt his mind empty, truly empty, even the darkness, as she writhed in his grasp. 

They both came together, Sansa reaching her peak just as she felt she might begin to struggle for air, Sandor as she shouted his name. 

He lay on the bed, panting. Sansa had climbed off of him, was curled up next to him, her head on his chest. She didn't say anything, and when the silence stretched he wondered if she had fallen asleep. 

He felt himself drifting off, exhausted by what had been a long and fraught day. He couldn't believe any of it had been real. 

It wasn't, he told himself, resisting the urge to wrap his arms around Sansa and hold her. Whatever had happened, it didn't mean anything. Tomorrow he would go back to being the Lannister's dog and Sansa would be Joffrey's betrothed, his plaything, until he cast her aside. 

Whatever he may been beginning to feel for her, he crushed it, like he could have crushed a cheap tin goblet in his fist. It was madness, all of it, he cursed himself. He'd had her twice - that would have to be enough. He would stay away from her from now on. 

It was the only way to protect her.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa considers her relationship with the Hound and has tea with Margaery.

A Lady had never been so wanton, Sansa berated herself, as she lay with her head on Sandor’s chest. He had fallen asleep, but she couldn't, and now she lay there with the rough hairs of his chest scraping her face with every breath he took. 

It was difficult to say what had happened to her. Ever since the Hound first pressed her up against that wall, she had felt all her careful courtesies slip away. It was so hard to be meek and compliant when for the first time in months she wanted. She'd made such a careful work of excising all of her desires; for her family, for Winterfell, for freedom. But now they had all come rushing back, along with something new.

It must have been possible to want without making such a spectacle of herself, but she couldn't think of another way to soothe herself, not when she was still trapped here.

She still throbbed between her legs, the memory of what she had done with Sandor so fresh. She thought of his hands on her neck and shivered. She should not have let him do that. For all his railing that he could have her however he wanted, he hadn't… choked her like that until she nodded. She nearly came as soon as she realized what he intended. Sandor Clegane, one of the most powerful men in Westeros, with all the strength to kill her in one hand. 

But he hadn't. He hadn't even hurt her. She felt there might be bruises on her neck now, but while it was happening all she felt was pleasure. 

She felt like she had played a dangerous game with the Hound, and maybe she had gotten lucky. She believed he cared for her, maybe even loved her. And she needed him. But it was perhaps unwise to put her life too far into his hands. His self-loathing ran so deep, she suspected it made him start to hate anyone who cared for him.

Sandor also, she suspected, had trouble separating his image of a high born lady from the woman he had bedded. For all he mocked her for believing the songs, he seemed to be quite beholden to them himself. Ladies were pure and chaste, and didn't… She flushed at the thought of herself licking and sucking his cock, trying so hard to please him. 

But she was not a whore for merely finding pleasure with him. Or at least, she kept trying to convince herself of that. It was more important to convince him, before his rage drove him to do something more than yell at her.

She supposed most men looked more open, more gentle in their sleep. This was not true of the Hound. His scarred face would never look gentle. And his scars ran deeper, she knew now, twisting him inside. The parts of her that had been trained since birth to serve a future husband ached to help him, fix him.

But he wasn't her husband. And she felt more powerful than she had since she left Winterfell - she wouldn't waste it trying to save someone who didn't want to be saved. 

***

The Hound was gone when Sansa woke the next morning. It took her a few moments to accept that the previous day had not been a dream. But as she dressed she found the marks on her body were real enough, faint bruises on her neck and darker red ones on her breasts. 

She felt dazed all through breakfast, brought by a usually simpering maidservant who now seemed to shoot her dark and suspicious looks. Sansa wondered what was being said about her, what all of those lords and ladies had made of her leaving with Sandor Clegane. 

One person who didn't seem to think badly of her was Margaery Tyrell; she received an invitation to join her in the gardens, just as she was beginning to fear she'd spend the whole day in her rooms thinking about the Hound and worrying about being summoned to see the King. 

She found Margaery taking tea in the shade of a flowering tree. The day was hot and the Southron Lady wore a light blue gown of an exceptionally low cut. Sansa had to force herself not to stare. The fashions in King’s Landing had always been more audacious than what she was used to at home, where warmth was the priority; this dress was revealing even by Southern standards. 

“Thank you for joining me,” Lady Margaery said when Sansa was seated beside her at a small iron table. “I had hoped to speak with you at the feast last night, but you left so suddenly.”

“I was ill,” Sansa replied with caution. 

Margaery lifted an eyebrow at that, but didn’t press her. 

“I hope you are feeling better this afternoon,” she said smiling broadly. “You certainly look well.” 

Sansa blushed at the compliment, quickly reaching for a cup of tea to bury her face in. 

“I was concerned for you yesterday, you know. The way the King sent you off with the Hound after the tournament, and again at the feast. Grandmother was deeply concerned,” Margaery said, pointedly. 

“The King wanted to honour the tournament champion,” Sansa said in small voice. It pained her to defend Joffrey, but she didn't dare speak ill against him in front of Margaery. Not until she knew more about where her loyalties lay. 

“The King wanted to humiliate you,” Margaery scoffed. She took one of Sansa's hands in her own, stroking it gently. 

“Maybe he did,” Sansa said, noncommittal. Her palm had started to sweat in Margaery’s grasp and she felt terribly embarrassed. She didn't understand why it was making her nervous, just holding hands. 

“Did he hurt you Sansa?” Margaery said, her voice like ice.

“Joffrey?” Sansa asked, bewildered. Of course Joffrey had hurt her. He'd done nothing but yell at her or have his Kingsguard beat her for months. 

“Not the King,” Margaery said, shaking her head. “I know he's hurt you. My grandmother and I have been asking after his character, and we know now what kind of man he is. I meant the Hound. We heard a rumour this morning.”

“What rumour?” Sansa asked, afraid to hear the answer. 

“I didn't hear it myself, but grandmother heard that Ser Boros had said the Hound attacked you yesterday. Either in the Great Hall or after the feast, it wasn't clear.” Margaery’s eye were hard. “If it's true, I want you to tell me. We can help you.”

Sansa felt like her head was spinning. It wasn't true. And it was. The Hound had taken her maidenhead in the Great Hall but it wasn't his choice. She wondered if the distinction would matter to Margaery Tyrell, whose face was a picture of cold fury. Why is she so ready to protect me? Sansa wondered. 

“I'm afraid it's just vicious gossip, my Lady,” Sansa said, attempting to affect a high, carefree laugh. “I did spend some of the day with Lord Clegane, so I assume people jumped to their own conclusions. But I'm not in any need of rescue.” Not from Sandor, at any rate, she thought. 

Margaery looked relieved. “My apologies then, for repeating a vile lie. I only wanted to look after you.” Margaery’s hand was still on Sansa's and she squeezed it, almost painfully. 

The rest of their conversation was easier. They told each other stories from childhood, and Sansa found herself laughing and smiling with ease. It felt good to be with Margaery. It felt safe. 

And then, when it was time to bid farewell to the other woman and return to her rooms, Margaery leaned in close to her. Sansa thought Margaery meant to hug her.

Instead Margaery pressed a kiss into Sansa's cheek. It was soft and tender and lingered just a little too long. She felt her face heating, and other parts, her body responding wildly to just the thought that Margaery might…

“I'll see you again soon, dearest,” Margaery said as she pulled away. 

Sansa watched her go, forcing herself not to reach up and touch her own cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a little longer to put up than I wanted! I've written most of this story but I'm editing as I go and this section tripped me up a little. I really am only concerned with plot insofar as it serves as a bridge between the smutty and/or angsty scenes, but plotting is still tricky! This is short-ish but I'll have a longer chapter up later this week, assuming editing goes well!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor has a bad morning and gets drunk about it; Sansa has trouble finding the right words to say to Sandor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa POV. It's a smut chapter. Warning for consensual but rough sex.

On her way back from the gardens, still lost in thought, she found herself walking the arcades above the Great Hall. Below her Joffrey was seated on the Iron Throne, hearing petitioners. The hall was crowded with those seeking the King’s favour. She felt sorry for them, knowing they would probably only receive his cruelty. 

She heard heavy footfalls behind her, and when she turned she caught a glimpse of the Hound striding past. He didn't meet her eye, and his face looked carved from stone. 

“Sandor?” she called after him, turning away from the balcony. He kept up his quick pace and she had to dash after him. 

“My Lord?” she said uncertainly, catching up with him and grabbing him by the sleeve of his shirt.

“Lord is it?” he growled, finally stopping. “I see you've remembered your courtesies today.”

Sansa wanted to cringe away in the face of his anger, feeling much less bold in the light of day than she had late last night. Instead she took a step forward and realized she could smell the scent of wine wafting off the Hound. He’d been drinking.

“Are you...alright? My Lord?” 

“Alright?” Sandor scoffed, his silver eyes blazing with rage. “I've spent all morning with Joffrey. Do you know what he wanted?”

“No,” Sansa said quietly, afraid to even guess.

“He wanted me to tell him all about how I fucked you last night. Seems he assumed I would be much rougher with you when I got you alone.” Sandor's face looked bleak, his skin slack and grey. “He wasn't wrong about that, was he little bird? He knows me very well.”

“What did you tell him?” Sansa asked, morbidly curious. 

The Hound’s hand was on her face before she had time to react, his strong fingers cupping her chin, making divots in her skin. 

“What do think, little bird? That I told him how you sucked my cock? How you rode me like a Flea Bottom whore?”

Sansa was silent, shocked by the way he spoke, although she knew she shouldn't be. She wanted to yell at him, to tell him he had no right to say such things. She was about to, he shook his head and said:

“I didn't tell him a fucking thing."

And she felt grateful, relieved - and afraid. The Hound had disobeyed Joffrey. The King would make sure Sandor suffered for that. It was difficult to maintain her anger at him when she suspected so much of it was based in fear. Fear of the King - but also fear for her own safety

“Thank you,” she said gently. 

Sandor barked a short harsh laugh. “I protected your honour, didn't I? Isn't that what knights do? Right after I spent all night sullying it.”

He dropped his hand and turned away from her. 

Sansa wasn't sure why she followed him, but she did. A few paces behind, she followed his unsteady, slightly drunken steps all the way to his room. 

***

Sansa was shocked at how sparse it was, little better than a Septon's cell. She would have thought someone who had served the Lannisters for years would warrant better. But then, it was just as likely the Hound had refused finer accommodations.

“Why did you follow me?” Sandor rasped, brushing past her. He went to the singular table in the room, which carried bottles of wine and whiskey, full and empty. 

“I thought…” she started. “I thought after yesterday we might-”

“We might what?” he snapped, pouring a quick swig of something into his mouth. “We might court each other now? Stroll through the gardens like you and Margaery Tyrell?”

Sansa was hurt. She didn't try to hide it. She thought she may have gotten through to him the night before, about what she wanted, expected from him. But he was half drunk, and cold, and distant. 

“I thought we would at least be friends,” she murmured. 

The bottle smashed against the wall, making her jump. He rushed at her, and suddenly her arms were pinioned to her sides, held painfully in Sandor's grasp.

“Friends,” he spat. “A wolf can't be friends with a dog.” 

She tried to summon some of the courage she had felt the night before but it had deserted her. She had felt strong last night, like her every action was in defiance of Joffrey. But now she was uncertain. So was Sandor. He seemed to be tortured by the fact that their night together, the way they had been together, might have pleased Joffrey.

The Hound was panting, his silver eyes hard. She watched his burned face twist in anger - anger towards her - and didn't understand what she had done wrong. 

She understood when he crushed her to his chest and pushed a furious kiss into her neck.

“Not friends, little bird. Never friends.” 

She was so close to him now, she could feel him growing hard against her leg. She wanted to reach out to him, to soothe him, but he still held her arms in his iron grip. 

He shoved her at the bed. It was so small, half the size of hers. She didn't know how he fit his giant body on it. 

She stumbled, and he was there to catch her. But he didn't help her stand. He forced her down onto her belly. 

“I was trying to stay away from you,” he groaned. She could feel him rubbing her back, and lower, taking her ass cheeks in each of his massive hands and squeezing them. He was pulling up her skirt. 

“You didn't need to,” she said, feeling herself growing warm as he touched her, even as he lifted her skirts and exposed her to the cool air. 

“The King will kill us,” he said. She could hear him undoing his belt, the soft leather sweeping across her upper thighs as he removed it and tossed it aside. “He said he'd kill me if I ever laid a hand on you again.”

She wanted to say something bold. Let him try, she thought, but she didn't feel that brave. Sandor was leaning over her, pressing her down into the bed with his weight. 

His face was beside hers, his ruined scarred face pressed against hers. He gave her another kiss, on her cheek, sharp enough to cut. She couldn't help but think of the kiss Margaery had given her; it was so different. More like a rose petal than a blade.

“You should have stayed away,” he breathed into her ear. She was covered in the shadow cast by the cascade of his long black hair.

And then without further warning he pushed himself inside her sex. She wasn't wet and she wasn't ready for it. It hurt, like nothing she had felt since the first moments when he had her on the table in the Great Hall. 

She shouted in surprise and the Hound froze. 

“Fuck, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-” he started. 

“Don't stop,” Sansa hissed. It hurt now but she knew it wouldn't if they kept going, knew that now she had him inside her she didn't want to let him leave. 

Sandor was shaking his head, more like he was shaking off a bad thought than disagreeing with her. “Why do you want someone like me, little bird?”

She couldn’t answer, did not have the right words to explain that she just wanted to be with him, whatever that might mean, whatever form it might take. 

“I do,” she breathed. “I do want you. Please.”

And then he was thrusting into her, pushing in and drawing away, slamming himself into her backside. She moaned each time, the pain gradually turning into something else. 

He grabbed her arms and raised them above her head, clasping them in one hand and holding them tightly. She couldn't move at all. He was so heavy, she thought he might crush her.

He moved faster, pulling himself out of her and slamming back in, shaking her, but drawing little thrills of pleasure. Each time he entered her she felt herself stretch around him and each time he pulled out it felt like a loss. 

“This is what you like?” he said softly, softer than she had ever heard him speak, like he couldn't quite believe it himself. “Do you like it when I fuck you like this?”

She squirmed under him, lifting her hips, pushing her ass upwards so she could meet his thrusts.

“Yes,” she gasped, as he hit a place deep inside her, sparking a pain that made her vision go white. “Yes,” she said, as that pain receded.

“Tell me what you want Sansa,” Sandor commanded. He had propped himself up, so he hovered above her as he pounded himself into her, filling her, making her feel like she might rip in two.

She didn't answer, biting one of her own arms to keep from shouting. She felt her mind going blank. There was nothing outside this moment. There was nothing but the empty space she occupied, suspended between annihilating pain and total pleasure. 

“Fuck me,” she cried out, finally. “Oh please, fuck me.” And it was like a prayer. 

He had his hands on her neck again. Pressing her into the bed, unable to lift her head at all. Her mouth was hanging open as she panted and she could feel her own saliva wetting the sheets beneath her face. He wrapped both hands around her neck and squeezed it. 

She pushed back into him harder than ever, even as she felt she might faint, drift off, die. 

He could kill me, she thought, and she didn't even mind. How good it could be, for everything to end here and now. Joffrey would never hurt her again. She would never miss her family or Winterfell or want for anything. 

But she did want. She wanted Sandor, so much she felt like she might explode. Even with him buried inside her, she wanted more of him. She wanted him to know. She was using her body to tell him, with every move she made and every gasp she let escape from between her lips. She would need to tell him with words, too, if she could ever find the right ones. 

The Hound lessened his grip on her neck, grabbed her hair instead, pulled her face up to meet his. 

“Come for me,” he growled, his voice as cruel as ever, even as he gave her exactly what she wanted. 

She cried out, unable to keep quiet, obeying him. She writhed underneath him. 

As she came he pulled out of her, and she was shocked to feel his seed splatter on her back. Hot at first, like scalding water, then rapidly cooling. 

They collapsed onto the bed together, unable to move or say a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I struggled a bit with this because the last time these two were together it was from Sandor’s POV, where it's easy to make clear that he says shitty things, and thinks shitty things (I've been writing him as basically suffering from intrusive thoughts), but his actions towards Sansa are usually very careful and considering of what she wants. He's been drinking here so he's more of an asshole, but I think things like him freezing and starting to apologize when he thinks he's hurt her shows the mean things he's saying are all a blustery masculine act. Obviously irl no one should speak to their lovers the way Sandor is here but I do like playing with that separation between what he says and what he does. (Sorry for rambling!)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumours are everywhere and they're driving Sandor crazy. Sansa needs rescuing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So The Plot is back, making a brief appearance here. This is short - next chapter is quite long and something needed to be moved up. I hope to post it soon but an extra scene was added and it's made editing convoluted. 
> 
> Here's my trigger warning: there's attempted sexual assault in this bit. 
> 
> If you would prefer to skip ahead to the next chapter once its up you'll be able to understand what is happening from context.

Sandor barely caught a glimpse of Sansa in the days that followed. The King kept him far from her and busy, standing guard for the royal family, or training new recruits to the city watch in the yard. It felt good to knock the greenboys into the dirt, kept his mind occupied.

For every time he had a spare moment, or found himself alone, his thoughts turned to her. He obsessed over the memories he had of her, moaning beneath him and screaming his name. His desire to have her again clouded his mind. 

But he kept his word to himself, and did not go to her. He’d broken that vow once and it had been a terrible mistake. He'd made an ass of himself, letting his anger at Joffrey bleed out of him, directing it at Sansa. He'd hurt her. 

So he promised himself, again, that he would stay away from her. If she came to him, he'd turn her away. He'd resist how badly he wanted her. Even if it killed him.

While he didn't see Sansa, he certainly heard about her. Her name was on everyone's lips. Or else his own was.

From the contents of the rumors, either Trant or Blount had talked about what had happened in the Great Hall. The most common story he heard was that the Hound had raped Sansa Stark, and the King had had to save her.

He had expected this, and tried to ignore the stares and whispers, the nobles wondering aloud, as he passed, why the King hadn't called for his head. 

The other stories were worse. They said Sansa had given herself to the Hound freely. That she was a wanton Northern whore who would open her legs for anyone if she was willing to lay with the Hound. It wounded him more because it was closer to the truth - but a warped version of it, so close to the dark thoughts in his own head he had to fight to silence.

He started drinking, to drown out the whispers and dark suspicions in his own head. He drank more than he ever had, not just at night, but during the day, until he was a reeking sot like Ser Dontos. He might have managed to control it, but those same crowds asking why the King hadn't put down his dog also wondered why Joffrey hadn't finally beheaded the traitor girl. She was a traitor twice over now, after all.

Sandor knew it was only a matter of time before Joffrey really did kill them. Leaving them alive was bringing the King shame. He even had a perfect pretext for killing Sansa now, for getting her out of the way so he could marry the Tyrell woman. 

When he was relatively sober, Sandor believed it was all his fault. That he had put Sansa's life in danger the first moment he touched her, and every time he did after that. Joffrey had threatened to kill them if he even touched Sansa again, and he had still done it. And enjoyed it, even when it put her life at risk. I stained her honour, he berated himself endlessly. What’s more important to a Stark than their fucking honour?

He was in a foul and drunken mood when he finally encountered Sansa again, after a week of only glimpsing her strolling the gardens with Margaery Tyrell.

He would catch them out of the corner of his eye, strolling with their arms entwined, laughing and blushing at each other. He didn’t know what they spoke of, but the way Margaery stroked Sansa’s hair and face, handed her roses from the heavy bushes made him uneasy. There were rumours about the Tyrell woman as well. 

It was late. He'd been out in Flea Bottom, drowning himself in some winesink where he was, if not unknown, at least more known for his prowess as a warrior than as a rapist of noble women.

He was stumbling down the hallways of the Red Keep, his head spinning, nearly lost. He'd wandered closer to the Tower of the Hand. 

The halls were empty, everyone else soundly abed at this hour. But he thought he heard voices drifting from behind a closed door just ahead of him.

Men's voices, at first. Two of them, laughing. Then he heard a woman. A moan? 

It sounded, gods save him, like Sansa did when he fucked her. 

He dashed forward, or tried to, his drunkenness betraying him. He crashed into the sandstone wall with his shoulder, and had to take a moment to steady himself. He could still hear the laughter.

More carefully, he followed the sounds, until he came to a wooden door. He could barely tell where he was, but the plainness of the door told him he'd come to something little better than a storage room.

“Alright then, enough teasing, take your dress off,” he heard one of the men say. It was clear the voice belonged to Ser Boros.

“We haven't got all bloody night,” Meryn Trant said.

The moaning again, Sansa's moaning. A whimper.

He could break the door down. He could rip the fucking thing off its hinges and kill both Kingsguard before they could get their cocks out. 

But he was already picturing it, what he'd find on the other side of the door:

Sansa, naked, on her hands and knees on the floor. That wild fucking look in her eye as Trant took her from behind, still wearing his bloody white cloak. Blount, in front of her, his cock out, waving it in front of her face. Her moaning, hungry for it. He'd slip in it and fuck her face while Trant pounded at her backside. She'd whimper around Blount's cock, gagging on it. 

He should have listened to that dark voice in his head since the very beginning, that he couldn't trust her. That she couldn't really care about him, that she just wanted him to fuck her. And if he wasn't around, anyone would do. A Kingsguard was a great deal better than a dog, surely.

Sandor's head spun, the wine he’d drank, the rage he felt, it was too much. He wanted to kill all of them, all three of them. 

He drew his sword and kicked at the door. His drunkenness did nothing to decrease his strength, and the thing practically splintered.

The scene inside was lit by a single lantern, and at first he couldn't understand why it didn't match his drunken vision. 

All the right characters were there, but they were not behaving at all the way he thought.

Sansa was still very much dressed, in the same gown he had seen her in that afternoon. Trant had her by the shoulders, was holding her still as Blount tried to pull up her skirts. But she was kicking at him, squirming like a wild animal. And she was gagged - a piece of cloth shoved in her mouth so she could only moan and whimper for help.

She looked so afraid. Nothing like the way she looked at him. Not even the first time, when he kissed her so roughly, brutally, desperately. There was nothing in her face of the warmth he always saw. 

Not until she looked up at him. 

He realized how he must seem to her, bursting through the door, sword drawn. He probably looked the hero, come to save her. He felt sick. 

“Get the fuck away from her,” he growled at the knights, pointing his sword at Blount's head.

The knight slowly backed away from Sansa, raising up his hands. “The King said-” he tried to say.

“Fuck the King!” Sandor roared, and slashed out, sweeping the lantern to the floor and plunging the little room into darkness. 

In the confusion, Sansa ran to him. 

Of course she did. He was her saviour. A true knight. He'd never hear the end of it now. Not unless he told her what he'd really meant to do, what he thought he had found her doing.

She clung to his arm, leaning her head into his chest as he ran with her back towards her chambers.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor has rescued Sansa for now, but there is nowhere for them to run.

They ran through the halls, Sandor pulling Sansa by the arm. He didn’t have a clear destination in mind, knowing only that he had to put distance between them and the Kingsguard. He didn't think they were brave or fool enough to actually challenge him, but they would go the King. Maybe not immediately - Sandor hoped their fear of Joffrey’s wrath would buy some time, but he knew eventually the King would come for them. 

At his side, Sansa was shaking. He knew no part of the Keep was safe, but somehow without really thinking he had headed for Sansa’s chambers. There was nowhere to hide, and at least in her own rooms she might feel more comfortable while they waited out the inevitable. 

He felt Sansa lagging behind him, so he slowed. 

“Little bird.” He tried to say it gently. It came out too loud, like a command, and her head snapped up. 

Tears were streaming down her face. She didn't look beautiful just then, only scared and tired, her eyes swollen and red.

“Did they-” he started. “Did they hurt you?”

“Not really,” she whispered. “Not much.” She shivered and he pulled her close. 

“Thank you,” she murmured into his chest. 

Gods damn me to the Seven Hells, he thought. How could he let her believe that meant to save her when really he almost… It was unbearable, with her in his arms, the thought that could have cut her down. And for what - fucking someone else? Hadn't he proved over and over again that he was little better than a dog? A jealous, violent dog? He should pray to the old gods and new in thanks for every second she deigned to even look at him, let alone everything else she had given him. If she wanted to be with someone else instead of him that only meant she had recovered her good sense at last.

“What happened?” he asked, his throat dry from the night of drinking and choking on his own disgust with himself.

Sansa pulled away from him and leaned her back against the wall. She seemed to need the space more than she needed comforting at the moment.

“I spent the day with Lady Margaery. She invited me to her apartments for dinner, with Ser Loras and her grandmother. When we finished, she gave me one of her servants to escort me to my rooms. But before we got there, the Kingsguard stopped us. They ordered the servant away, and the boy wasn't about to defy them. I tried-” here she faltered. 

His stomach twisted at the mention of Ser Loras, but he reminded himself that Sansa didn't care for the pretty boy, that she knew Loras didn't care for women at all. There was no threat there.

What he really wanted was to go to her, to brush away the strands of red hair that had become stuck to the tears upon her face. He wanted to comfort her, to know the words to say. But he didn't know any of them, so he held still and listened.

“I tried to tell them Lady Margaery would be angry with them if they didn't let me go,” she continued. “But they just laughed at me. They said they had orders from the King. And that… that if they weren't afraid of the Hound they certainly weren't afraid of Margaery Tyrell.”

“I'll need to remind them to fear me,” Sandor growled.

“I think you may have done so already,” she said, and gave a weak laugh.

“If they thought they could hurt you it means they don't fear me enough,” he told her. He should go back and kill the knights, gods knew he wanted to. But that would mean leaving Sansa alone. 

“I think they fear you,” Sansa said. “I just don't think they believed you would… that you would care about what they did. After the Hall. And all the rumours.”

The rumours they started, Sandor thought darkly. But of course Sansa had heard the foul words too, the ones that suggested Sandor had wanted to assault her. Buggering idiots like Trant and Blount - they wouldn't know anything about what it had cost him to do what he did in the Great Hall. If Joffrey had ordered them to fuck Sansa - and he had, it seemed now - they would have done if it while laughing and without a second thought. 

“I should get you to your rooms,” he said, his head beginning to ache. He was still half drunk, but it was rapidly fading. His mind felt slow. He knew they needed a plan, a real plan to escape the city, but he couldn’t think of anything. There was no solution to the problem short of killing Joffrey and every knight in the Red Keep, and while he wasn’t afraid to try, he knew that would only end with Sansa’s head on pike. 

“Will we be safe there?” Sansa asked, something pleading in her tone. He wanted to lie to her, though he had promised he never would. The way she looked at him, he thought if he told her everything would be well, that he would rescue her and take her far from King’s Landing, she would believe it. 

“Not likely,” he said instead. “I don’t think anywhere is safe anymore.” 

She reached out for him, grabbing his hands and pulling him close to her. 

“Sansa,” he breathed, finally close enough to brush the hair from her face. It felt like silk between his fingers. He hovered on the edge of speaking, on the edge of kissing her, wishing desperately for words he could not find, or for her lips to brush against his. In the end he let his hand fall, and took up her arm once more. “We should go.”

They walked in silence to Sansa’s room, their earlier urgency evaporated. There was nothing to be done, as far as Sandor could figure it. 

Yet when they arrived, he found himself standing awkwardly on the outside of the doorway. 

“I should stay with you.” He hated how uncertain his own voice sounded. He felt like he was begging her, begging to be allowed to stay at her side. He should be telling her, stating it simply that he would protect her. But he stumbled over the damn words. “You might need- Those bastards could come back. You might need someone…” He faltered. 

Sansa just nodded, opening the door wide so he could follow her in. “I would feel safer if you were here,” she said.

He wanted to laugh at that, at the idea that she was safe with him, that he was any better than the Kingsguard. But she wouldn't understand. 

In a moment Sandor had barred the door, and they were in the bedchamber again. Sansa threw herself down on the bed and just laid there, looking exhausted. And beautiful, he thought, the way her hair fanned out around her head like a crown. 

Sandor stood at the foot of the bed, not knowing what to do with himself. He should stay by the door, draw his sword, be ready to face whatever came to destroy them. 

“Come lie down with me,” Sansa said in a quiet dreamy voice, like she was falling asleep already.

He thought about arguing with her. He meant to argue with her, to insist he shouldn’t be distracted- but his body was already moving, climbing onto the bed and pulling Sansa up against his chest. 

She tucked her head in against his neck and he kissed the top of her head, smelling her hair. She sighed, like she was happy. How could that be, he wondered, after the night she’d had? He expected her to be full of tears still, or else rage. He was surprised to find the rage in himself was, if not gone, at least quieted. This was not the time or the place for it, and for once he managed to control himself. 

For out of everything that had happened between them, this moment struck Sandor as the most impossible. Sansa Stark was in his arms. He was just holding her. He felt strange, felt overwhelmed by her. Not by desire for her, for once. But merely by her presence. This is what it was like, in the songs, he thought. Lovers never fucked or fought or even kissed. They just held each other. 

Lovers, he scoffed at himself. Is that what this is? You think the girl loves you?

He didn't. He stroked Sansa's hair and listened to her soft breaths and he struggled against the surge of emotions he was feeling. How many years had it been since he'd had to feel anything at all? Since he'd been with Sansa it seemed like all he did was feel things, a confusing mess of emotions that mostly tortured him. But there was something good there too, sometimes. When he thought about her. Not about what he'd done to her, not about fucking her, just her. When he held the picture of her in his mind, with her gentle eyes… that part felt good. 

You idiot. You fool. 

“Sandor?” Sansa said, her voice muffled against her chest. 

“What?” 

“What do you think is going to happen now?” she asked. “Is the King… he's going to have me beheaded, isn't he? Just like my father.” 

It couldn’t have lasted, the sweet quiet moment without fear, but Sandor still felt sick to have it shattered. Joffrey. It always came back to Joffrey, and his own powerlessness against the King. 

“I'll kill him if he tries,” Sandor growled, pulling Sansa closer. Her body was tense, but she relaxed in his grip. “I'll kill anyone who tries to hurt you. I should have taken Blount and Trant's heads for what they did tonight. I still can, if you want me to.”

Sansa looked up at him. There were tears running down her cheeks, and her eyes glittered. 

“You really would do it,” she said, wonderingly. “You'd kill them if I asked you to.”

“I…” Sandor started. He felt his face heating, couldn't stop himself from uttering the words: “I'd do anything you asked of me.” 

He thought it might please her, to hear that, but she frowned. Of course she did, why would he remind her of all the blood on his hands? Of how easily and how often he had killed? It must disgust her. 

“I would ask it,” Sansa said slowly, “I'd ask you to kill them and Joffrey too. If I thought it could be done without you dying in the process.” 

It would be worth it, he thought. He almost said it out loud, barely held in the words. He was losing his mind. That was the only explanation. Or he was still drunk. He felt a burning sensation in his chest, his heart pounded, a million ridiculous words trying to escape. I would do anything for you, I would die for you, I-

“I need to leave the city,” she said. 

Sandor clenched his teeth, frustration and rage pouring into him. She wanted to leave. It was the only she truly needed and the only thing he couldn't give her. Every noble and knight in the Red Keep knew his scarred face and so did every man in the City Watch. Even he could sneak her out of the Keep he didn't have the coin or the allies to help her reach safety. The King would hunt them down and bring them back and matters would be even worse.

Coward. The word echoed horribly in his head. It had been there, taunting him, ever since the Battle of the Blackwater. There had been a chance to save her, that night. But he was drunk and half-mad with fear and she refused to go with him. He didn't blame her. Even now he still wasn't sure what he had really meant to do that night. Going to her rooms, holding a knife to her and demanding a song… And she did sing. He didn't know what he would have done if she hadn't. 

In the end he hadn't been able to force himself to leave either. The flames were too high, too hot for him to face. 

And, he could now admit, finally, that he didn't want to leave without Sansa. 

I should have gone, he berated himself. None of this would have happened if he had just left. He wouldn't have hurt her and fucked her and he wouldn't feel… whatever this was. 

“I'm of no use to you,” he murmured, a knot of grief and shame and hopelessness settling in his stomach. 

She rested her hand on his face, soft and cool. She always seemed to touch the ruined half, like she was trying to show him she wasn't afraid. 

“I don't need you to be useful,” she said softly. “I just need you with me.” 

Need. She needed him. That was something. He felt something loosening in chest, like he'd been holding his breath. 

“That won't help you escape,” Sandor said. 

“Maybe there is no escape,” she whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a little short again! It got carved off from a bigger chapter - I think some actual whole chapters I had written are going to end up on the editing room floor (i.e. posted as one-shots later) because they don't really fit where this is headed anymore! We'll see. Sorry if updates become a little slower - probably will still be able to post once a week but not 100% on that. P.S. I realize this is the second smut-free chapter in a row but next chapter is exclusively smut, so!


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